Girls' education

Hadiza's primary school

As for my role as her sponsor PCV, I will visit Hadiza at least monthly, help arrange a tutor, bring her a stipend each month, and start a journal/semi-biography with her. I am so curious to know her and to know what she thinks and feels and needs...I think it may take months before she will be comfortable being totally open with me. Now she treats me like quite an authority figure and probably would say whatever she thinks I want to hear.

I know, I know, education is one of the first steps to self liberation, development, women's rights; I'm not about to make a case against educating anyone: knowledge is power. But consider and recognize that the process, the logistics, even, of becoming educated in this country, especially for a female, are very very formidable. Hadiza has to leave home, alone; she's the only girl to do so; all of her girlfriends will stay in the village and continue their lives as usual. She has to adjust to a new village, family, and school. She'd have to be pretty enlightened already to be content with this situation: who at 13 is happy to leave their peer group? So there is that. Then consider the Nigerien school system: a French system, with all courses taught in French (not the language used in homes or anywhere else in the villages), where memorization and recitation are all you do, and critical/independent thinking and creativity aren't fostered. Corporal punishment is the primary form of discipline, not just for misbehavior, but also as a means of academic correction.

Now consider the long term social implications for an educated female in this country, where most women marry as girls, at age 16-18. Hadiza, if she succeeds amidst the challenges mentioned above, will have to face the stigma that educated women are less desirable as wives--the assumption being that they are too independent (willful and also financially independent), too strong-minded/stubborn/assertive, and too old to marry: all unattractive qualities to many Nigerien men.

Even as there are national campaigns to promote girls' education, there is not a "place," a culturally and socially appropriate, desirable place, for educated adult women. That takes time. An educated, open-minded Nigerien male friend of mine told me that in a recent TV campaign for girls' ed, several female "role models" were presented as examples of what you can become if you, too, go to school:
1. A pop singer (who dresses like a westerner, and therefore looks totally unpresentable and slutty.)
2. A teacher (unmarried, living at home with parents)
3. A woman with a high-powered government job (divorced, living at home with her parents)
So, as much as the ad was supposed to show "successful" educated women, it actually just reinforced the stereotype that educated women are unmarriageable, inappropriate, burdensome drains on their parents. So. In Niger, marriage is a huge rite of passage, celebrated as much or more as any holiday, and 1/2 of the ultimate achievement a woman can possibly make: having lots of babies.

I think maybe I've made my point...just that getting girls in school is tough, keeping them there is tough, and showing them that it is going to improve their lives is tough--and in the view of many, not even true.

Best friend

Fatchi

Another bio:

Fatchi:
I'd say that Fatchi is my best girlfriend in the village, the person whom I feel understands me the best, and with whom I feel really comfortable and natural. She's probably in her 50s, and lives with her husband and kids in a hut way out on the edge of town. I probably wouldn't have ever met her---or at least wouldn't have realized how amazing she is--if I hadn't made myself go out to her far-away hut during my first month. At the time I was determined to push myself and greet as many people as I could. It really paid off: I met Fatchi! From the beginning I felt really good around her; she has this great humor about her, and no matter what you say (no matter how unintelligible your Hausa is) she does her best to understand and make you feel spectacular. As soon as I step into her concession, she shouts out my name with a laugh, like it's the most wonderful, surprising, unlikely thing that I am here. And what I realized sets her apart from most other women is that she is bursting with questions and curiosity about the USA. Other women are definitely curious, but I think that perhaps they don't know where or how to start asking, and they don't want to reveal how little they know or don't know of the differences between here and there. ( And I recognize similarities in myself and other Americans: where do you even begin to start asking questions about the unknown? It's hard!) Fatchi, however, always has something to ask or say. I go over there every other day and usually hang out for an hour, sometimes two. It is always a laughter-filled time, with both of us discovering lots about each other.

Off the top of my head I can recall conversations with Fatchi about: washing machines, bridal showers, obesity, post offices, and of course millet, hunger, cows, marriage, and giving birth (popular topics among village women.) One question Fatchi asks me is "Samsiye, kasanku, da gaskiya baku sha hura?" "Samsiye, in your country, is it really true that you don't drink hura?" (Hura is the millet and milk drink, a staple food, kind of like bread in the states, but more central. Every meal, really...at least in the village.) It's basically impossible to imagine a country surviving without hura. Another question that we've talked about a lot--and man, does it blow me away, and her, too, how different this is--is the question of how women give birth here vs. the US. Here, the women give birth alone, inside their huts, in total silence. No doctor, no family, no one--and no drugs, and absolutely no yelling. I can hardly believe it, but I know it is true. And she can hardly believe that many (most, right?) women in the US give birth in a hospital, with at least a doctor present, and often family, plus their husbands ( no way that would fly here), and they sometimes even yell.
Obviously Fatchi and I have a lot to learn from each other.

A walk with Amu

So. OK. I went out with Amu to their fields, which were northwest of town along a path I hadn't been on yet. It climbed gently for awhile, and I got a good long gulp-of-a-view of the farms and villages spreading out south of us. Ahead and behind and on other paths in all directions were other women, chatting and laughing and hauling their loads--babies, food, water--towards their men and their fields. It was like being in a painting where everything is green except a wide stripe of blue at the top and bright dashes of red, yellow, pink, and brown all throughout.
When we reached our fields, the men came and sat with us, and we had a lively conversation about the delicacies of fried crickets. Amu's baby daughter, Saphara'u, played in the sand, the men drank hura, and I learned the word for "crunchy"(kamaskamas). Then, Amu and I returned to the village, a nice 40 minute walk, as colorful and chatty as the one out.

Luck is like a turban

4/27/08
The time is ripe to send you your second installment of Nigerien proverbs; they are long overdue, I know. So let's get to the point (the only problem being--where to start? There are so many, and they are all so GOOD!)

• Ran wanka ba a b'oye cibiya. On the day you wash your body, your navel will not be concealed.

• Rabo rawani ne inda ya kare sai a soke. Luck is like a turban; when it finishes, you tuck it in.

• Ko giwa ta fad'i, ta hi k'arfin tukunya. Even though the elephant has fallen, it is still too big for the pot.

• Kada ganin hadari ya saku wanka da kashi. Just because you see rain clouds doesn't mean you should bathe in poop.

• Ki naka, duniya ta sonshi. Dislike your child, and the world will love him. (What?)

• Haihuwa d'aya horon gindi. One birth is training to the vagina. (What??)

• Gwano bashi jin warin jikinshi. An ant doesn't smell his own body odor. (Do ants even have b.o.?)

Well, that's enough for now. I am going to take my proverb list out to the men and see what they make of it.

Other afternoons

One of two friends named Rabi, holding a little cousin

Often I will hang out with some younger women at my home. This is one of the only times I have visitors, aside from N'arba, of course. Rabi and Rabi, who are probably around seventeen but not married yet, have been coming over, and I really enjoy and appreciate their company. They are curious and kind. It's nice to have time with females a little closer to my age. In many ways our lives are more similar than mine is to a 25 year old Nigerien woman, who most likely is married with three kids already. The Rabis and I have been looking at books and magazines together, braiding hair, making dolls, and talking.

Afternoon

4/6/08

At around two or three I have been joining a group of guys, the men on the corner by my home, to play cards. It's too hot to do much else, and most of the time I enjoy their company a lot. They are patient with my Hausa; they are more understanding than the women when it comes to speaking a second language (probably because they experience it themselves when they go on Exxode, and because more of them attended school and learned some French.) Women do not play cards here--Nigerien women--but as a foreigner I am party to both men's and women's worlds. It means that I assume a sort of asexual, borderline gender role, which I think is pretty cool, and a real advantage.

Dust storm

A red-orange storm
(For best results, click on the picture and let it fill your screen!)

5/31/08
Jessica has spent the past 3 weeks in Hamdallaye at a Peace Corps training session; part of the time was shared with the volunteers' counterparts who all traveled in from their villages for a few days. On May 20 there was a huge dust storm, followed by rain. There was a mad dash to drag mattresses inside, and it looks like everybody was blasted with wind, sand and then rain. Quite a sight! Thanks to volunteer Jody K for the above photo.

Jessica, Angie, and Jen experiencing the dust storm to the fullest degree

Midday

Inside Jessica's hut

4/6/08
I've gotten off track. Mornings. After I greet people for one or two hours, or three, depending on how hot it is, I come home to my compound, usually around ten or eleven. It's starting to heat up around now, but it's still nice enough to get things done. I'll wash clothes, sweep sand (always a chore), get out veggies for drying, wash clothes, pull water from the well. And then it's midday, and the only thing to do now is to make it through the heat, which is white light, and brightly, hotly, windily, parching. Sometimes it is humid, which is worse.

Things I do between twelve and two PM include: study, sweat, nap, eat, write, sweat, crosswords, stare into space, watch my pigeon preen in the shade, read letters over and over, drink water...It's not that bad, honestly. Yet. It will get much hotter soon, and I'll look back on this and think I was such a sissy!

The elders

N'arba and grandchildren grinding berries

There is another section of the population you might be curious about: the elders. These people are among my favorites. The life expectancy in Niger is not very high--I forget--is it even as high as fifty? So there aren't a lot of older men or women. However, there are many senior citizens in my village who, in my eyes, may be experiencing their happiest and freest years. Take N'arba, for example, my daily companion and adoptive parent who accompanies/leads me in my rounds. She is close to seventy; her kids are grown, her husband passed away. For the first time in her life she has the freedom to walk around the village whenever she wants. She can mouth off to everyone, men included. People listen to her, her family feeds her...she is living it up. It is so cool to walk behind her and imagine what it would've been like to follow her around twenty, forty, sixty years ago.

Men

4/6/08
It's different for the men, at least for now, because it's not farming season yet. Men have a completely different routine, and it does not overlap with the women's at all, except when sleeping. Men's schedules revolve largely around prayer times-which are 5AM, 2PM, 4PM, 7PM, and 8PM. In the mornings, from 6AM on, they sit in the shade along the paths of the town, sometimes alone, but normally in large groups. You'll find the same guys in the same places, making tea (the exception to "men don't cook in Niger"), playing cards, and listening to the radio.

A lot of the men are on Exxode right now, meaning they have left the villages for work in more "prosperous" countries: Nigeria, Benin, Togo, Ghana...I'm told that they will start to return soon, pre-rainy season, to get their fields ready for planting. When that happens, I anticipate things becoming a bit louder and busier, and I bet there won't be so many dudes hanging out.

Morning circuit

Teen girls visiting Jessica's compound, in the shade of the hangar

4/6/08
I have a common "circuit" that I walk most mornings. I visit a few women at their homes almost every day, people I feel particularly drawn to for one reason or another. There is Fati and her daughter Sahara, both of whom I adore. I came across them by chance the first time I visited the village in February; I had walked to the edge of the village and was trying to meet as many people as I could handle. As soon as I walked into their compound and saw them, I knew we would be friends. Fati is probably in her 40s; Sahara is in her teens, and they find it hilarious and wonderful that I am here. No matter what, I know I can go there and and smile with them. I also visit Karima, because she seems like a sort of powerful matriarch-type person; she sells goro nuts (kola nuts to you?) .

To provide a little context to all of this: under Islamic law a man can have up to four wives. I believe most, if not all, men in my village have two or more wives. During day time, most women (ages17+) are within the family compound, working. Each woman has her own hut for her and her kids. Younger girls and teen girls leave frequently throughout the day to get water-you'll always see them coming and going-but for the most part you won't see women hanging out in public spaces. In the hottest part of the day, the women do congregate with their friends in the shade for a few hours, but really they are without much "free time."

Women

Women here are hard-core; they pull water from the wells (which I do for myself because it's fun/hard/a good place to chat with women) and then carry it on their heads home. I do not carry it on my head because-oh my god-do you know how heavy a bucket of water is? It's got to be 200 lbs or something; I swear I'd do it if I could, but I simply can't. Instead, I carry my buckets by hand, and as a result, instead of looking really, cool and strong and straight-backed, I look really spill-y, and waddle-y and wet. Sigh.

Women also give birth to 5+ children, walk for miles to get firewood to burn to cook 2+ meals a day, and still find the time to laugh and joke and welcome weakling girls into the fold with open arms and exclamations of gratitude. It's remarkable.

The first conversation

2/15/08
It has been an exceptional evening, one of unanticipated joys, and even though I wrote to you this morning, I have to catch a few more moments in writing before they are lost! I guess the magic started this afternoon, when I gave the stickers that you sent to the kids in my family and our neighbors. Everyone wanted one; they each chose carefully (pink being very popular), and proudly displayed their choices on their foreheads (who taught them that's where stickers go?). I took a picture for you! The specialness of the evening came at dinner: Haoua and I had our first conversation. For real! Until now, I've only been able to manage stilted sentences and boring questions, but tonight it was as if I'd suddenly figured something out. Nigeriens don't usually converse during meals, but after dinner is prime talking time. Women often visit each other at this time, and they'll sit out on a mat with the kids, to nurse and talk. Well, tonight Haoua's sister came over, and for the first time ever, I understood more words than I missed! I could actually follow the conversation and contribute. Everyone was very impressed! We talked about all of the volunteers Haoua has hosted, all of Abdu Salaam's new words, the health of the neighbors, the difference in what dogs look like here vs the USA, what we do at school all day, and a few other things. Hallelujah! Baby steps! I feel awesome. And the crowning moment came at the end, when Haoua said "Sannu da hira!" which basically means "what a great conversation!" True.